


Four Times Nate Saw Wade's Underwear

by Perpetual Motion (perpetfic)



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perpetfic/pseuds/Perpetual%20Motion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly what it says on the tin. With sex! Set in the_wordbutler's Motion Practice Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Times Nate Saw Wade's Underwear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Admissions, Interrogatories, and Other Discoveries](https://archiveofourown.org/works/806216) by [the_wordbutler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler). 



> Set in the_wordbutler's Motion Practice Universe, which you can peruse [right here.](http://archiveofourown.org/series/24545) Nate and Wade are lawyers. Sexy lawyers. Who have the sex.

The first time Nate sees Wade’s underwear, he’s in the middle of pulling down Wade’s slacks so they can have sex for the first time. The underwear are neon green and covered in neon orange smiley faces. Nate looks up Wade’s front to ask if he’s gone colorblind, and he freezes, Wade’s slacks halfway down his thighs, and Wade’s shirt—which Wade had removed once Nate had decided to concentrate on clothes beneath the waist—also gone, leaving Wade bare-chested.

It’s also the first time Nate sees Wade’s scars. “What the hell?” 

He doesn’t handle it particularly well. In his defense, Wade’s torso looks like it hasn’t been handled particularly well, either. From his waist to his shoulders, Wade’s skin is puckered and wrinkled, like it’s been patched together after—

“Are those burn scars?” Nate asks, and he manages to stop staring at Wade’s chest and look him in the eyes when he asks. Wade is standing very still, a way he doesn’t stand very often, and his hands are opening and closing over nothing. Nate reaches up and grips Wade’s hands and pulls himself to his feet. He doesn’t look away from Wade’s face the whole time.

“Technically,” Wade says, much more slowly than Nate’s pretty sure he’s ever heard him say anything, “they’re skin graft scars.”

Nate reaches out to touch, and Wade doesn’t stop him, but he also flinches a little when Nate spreads a hand across his chest. “Do they hurt?”

“Nah. It’s an old injury. It’s all just straight-up skin now.”

Nate wants to ask. He knows Wade will tell. He might bullshit some of the details, but he’ll tell. But he also wants to finish taking off Wade’s pants and kiss him until he’s moaning like he was a few minutes ago in the living room. “All right,” Nate says, and he trips Wade onto the bed and follows after him, covering Wade with his body and feeling the strangeness of the texture of Wade’s skin against his own chest. It’s odd, but it’s not unpleasant, and he chances kissing Wade’s collarbone about an inch below where the majority of the grafts appear to start.

“Game on?” Wade asks, and the bravado in his voice is false but Nate doesn’t call him on it.

“Game on,” Nate agrees.

Afterwards, sweaty and panting and hoping he doesn’t get sick from laughing so hard (and he’s never, _ever_ laughed during sex before, but he’s quickly grown an appreciation for it), Nate reaches out, snags Wade before he can get out of bed, and pulls him in tight, kissing him deep and slow and humming in pleasure when Wade kisses back just as much.

They lie curled together for a while. Wade’s apartment is quiet, and Nate falls into a light doze and then Wade says, soft and shaky, “When I was fifteen, my dad decided I needed to learn how to fix a car, but my dad was an asshole, so rather than, you know, showing me how to do stuff, he handed me a drip pan and a socket wrench and, like, jammed me under the car and told me not to come up until I’d changed the oil.”

Nate stays silent when Wade pauses to breathe, and it seems to give Wade strength. When he speaks again, he’s still quiet, but his voice is steady. “I’m down there for forty-five minutes, my dad kicking at my feet and shit, telling me to get my shitty head together, and I finally get the stupid reservoir open, and I end up with oil all down my t-shirt. But I can’t come out from under the car until it’s done, so I get the pain under it, and I wait for it to all drip out, and the whole time, I’ve got this oil all over my t-shirt, and it’s my favorite t-shirt, so it’s really worn out and thin, you know?”

“What was the shirt?” Nate asks. It’s inconsequential to the story, certainly, but he wants —he _needs_ —to know.

“The Ramones, baby. The KKK took my baby away, and they wrote a song about my feelings.”

Nate snorts a laugh, and he looks at Wade and Wade’s smiling, but then the smile falls off his face, and Nate resists the urge to pull him in even closer. 

“So, I get the oil changed for reals, and I come out from under the car, and my dad starts in on me about what kind of fuck up gets the oil all over himself, and I should really fucking know better, and I’m taking off my shirt because I’m all gross and Sheena’s a punk rocker now, and I’m trying to wipe the residue off my chest with my shirt, but I just end up getting _more_ oil on me, and that’s when he flicks the cigarette at me.”

Nate’s assumed since about day two of knowing Wade that there’s something violent in his past. He gets cagey in corners, squirms when people slam their hands on desks or tables in the office sometimes, and the motor mouth has always felt like cover, like he’s trying to stay one step ahead of someone saying something mean, trying to say so much no one has time to tell him he’s not worth _their_ time. 

Nate doesn’t say any of this. Instead, he says, “And you caught fire?”

“World’s biggest bottle rocket,” Wade says. “Well, maybe not. I’d have to consult Guinness, but I was definitely cosplaying as one when I was fifteen. Suuuuper skinny. Like, Kate Moss top-of-her-game skinny. Then, I was in an induced coma for a month while the skin grafts healed and got skinnier, and now I am this gorgeous specimen you see before you.”

The last is said with an edge of loathing, and Nate moves without thinking, rolling Wade onto his back, and then straddling Wade’s thighs and placing his hands on either side of Wade’s head. “I don’t see anything wrong with the specimen before me,” he says.

“I am one less ball than most men,” Wade replies, and it’s meant to be flippant, but there’s something in his eyes, something warm and happy and a little scared, and Nate thinks, not for the first time, that they are the most perfectly fucked-up couple in the entire goddamn world.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Nate says, and when Wade moves to punch him in the chest, Nate catches his hand and bites lightly at his knuckles.

*

The fourth time Nate sees Wade’s underwear, he’s walking into Wade’s little closet of an office at work, and Wade is stripping down. Nate just stares for a few seconds, takes in the line of Wade’s back, the way his ass curves in his boxer briefs (black and yellow striped, and Nate _knows_ there’s a banana pun in his near future), and it’s as he’s getting his eyes to work their way back up to Wade’s face, that Wade turns around, sees him, grins, and says—saucy and melodramatic as hell—“Close the door, big boy.”

Nate does. And twenty minutes later, when he comes out of the office, he’s heard _four_ banana puns and Emma is waiting in the hallway with a raised eyebrow. “Need something?” Nate asks as he straightens his suit jacket across his shoulders.

“Soundproofing, apparently,” Emma says, and she turns and walks off before Nate can do more than open his mouth to apologize.

“Well done,” Carol calls out from halfway down the hall. “I give it an eight!”

“Eight-point-five!” Bobby yells from the law library at the other end.

“How do I get out of this?” Nate asks at the same time as Wade squawks something about deserving at _least_ an 8.8.

“Coffee. For everyone. Forever,” Carol says.

“Or next week,” Emma hollers on her way downstairs. 

“Done,” Nate agrees, and he walks into his office, shuts the door, sits down at his desk, and considers getting mad. Then he remembers the way Wade stuttered and purposely _didn’t_ yank on his hair to give a little plausible deniability and finds himself smiling instead.

*

The ninth time Nate sees Wade’s underwear, they’re just about to have sex and Nate is yanking at Wade’s slacks when he stops short because he’s come face-to-face with panties. Pink, frilly panties complete with a satin bow.

Nate’s mouth goes on autopilot. “What the hell?”

“What?” Wade asks. He’s trying to climb Nate like a tree, mumbling something about ‘man mountain’ and ‘plant a flag.’

“Why are you in women’s underwear?”

“They’re not women’s underwear,” Wade replies, as though that explains everything.

Nate touches one of the many stacked ruffles. “Wade, these are women’s underwear.”

“No, they’re my underwear.”

Oh, god, Wade’s getting pedantic, and he’s started nipping along Nate’s shoulders. If Nate doesn’t concentrate, he’s not going to get to the end of this conversation because he really _likes_ when Wade nips at his shoulders.

“Why are you wearing underwear made for women that you purchased for yourself?” Nate tries.

“They’re not made for women. They’re made for men.”

Nate takes a moment to consider that answer, but Wade gets a hand down his pants. He groans as Wade’s hand wraps around his dick, and he grips Wade tight, rutting against his palm for a few seconds as he slides his hands down Wade’s back, over his ribs, and to the edge of his frilly pink panties.

That snaps him back to his intended follow-up question. “What do you mean—” Wade cups his balls and rolls them carefully in his hand. “—they’re made for men?” Nate manages to finish just before Wade goes back to stroking his dick. Harder this time, with more pressure and twist. It is melting Nate’s brain by the second.

“I buy ‘em from a website,” Wade says, and he presses his crotch against Nate’s leg, rocks his hips a little to get a rhythm going. “The whole website’s just supposed-lady stuff made for men.”

“Supposed?” Nate gets out as Wade takes the hand from his pants, then pushes Nate onto the bed so he can pull Nate’s pants off. 

“To quote the great philosopher Iggy Pop,” Wade says as he yanks off Nate’s pants with a flourish and throws them behind him with a greater flourish, “I’m not ashamed to be dressed as a woman because I don’t find it shameful to be a woman.”

Wade then proceeds to suck Nate’s dick until Nate screams and comes and grasps blindly at Wade as Wade crawls up his body. His hands, when he settles them on Wade’s hips, curl over and under the ruffles, and Nate spends a few moments running his fingers over the panties, fluffing up the ruffles, feeling the way the shape around Wade’s ass. “But why?” he finally asks, because he needs an answer that isn’t Wade being gleefully obtuse or a quote from Iggy Pop.

Wade is already straddling Nate’s lap, but he settles in more, the panties brushing over Nate’s stomach. Wade still has an erection, and there’s a damp spot on the panties where his dick is leaking. Nate touches it without thinking, and Wade topples, catching himself with his forearms on either side of Nate’s head.

“Because they’re pretty,” Wade says, and he moans, low and dirty, when Nate reaches into them to start jerking him off.

“They match you, then,” Nate replies. “And that smoky, Demi Moore voice of yours.”

“Oh, Mr. Kutcher,” Wade falsettos in his ear, and Nate laughs and grabs a handful of Wade’s ass in the panties and jerks him off until Wade comes on both their chests.

It’s only as he’s drifting off to sleep that Nate remembers they came straight from the office and that means Wade, very likely, spent his whole day in ruffly pink panties with a little satin bow.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against the back of Wade’s head.

“I promise you’ll go out kinky,” Wade replies.

*

The twenty-second time Nate sees Wade’s underwear, the case is won. The railroaded defendant is free, and the bar nearest the courthouse busy as hell. So, Nate figures, two drinks in and just starting to feel it, groping his boyfriend is probably okay.

“Careful,” Wade says as he leans back into the pressure of Nate’s hand on his ass. “People can see you.”

“Damn right,” Nate says, and he goes for another squeeze.

“Aaaand, I’m blind,” Clint Barton says as he walks up to the bar, Phil Coulson at his side and looking like he’s trying not to smile.

“Oh, please,” Wade retorts, not retreating as Nate slides his hand over the curve of his ass and up his back. “I have totally seen you and Mr. Blandface there doing it in your window seat.”

Clint actually takes a step back. Coulson’s expression doesn’t change. Nate knew he liked the guy. “Wade,” Nate says, ready to call him off.

“Bet we out-scored you,” Coulson says, and there’s a moment of shocked silence before Wade bursts out laughing, and Nate can’t help but chuckle along. Clint looks confused.

“Huh?” he asks.

“It’s a little game Carol and Emma play when they see…things,” Coulson says, and he orders their drinks and leads Clint away to a back booth that’s quiet and private and—Nate notices with a smirk—noticeably darker than the rest of the room.

“Awww,” Wade says, turning back to Nate. “I wanted the back booth handjob tonight.”

“Guess you’ll have to wait your turn.”

“And I wore my best panties,” Wade says in an undertone close to Nate’s ear because as ridiculous and off-the-cuff as Wade is, he does know when not to say some things at a certain volume.

And the appreciation for that cancels out when Nate replays what Wade’s just said in his head. “Panties?” he whispers. He hasn’t seen Wade in them since the first time, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been thinking about it. A lot.

“Pink and sheer,” Wade says, the undertone switched to a whisper right next to Nate’s ear. Anyone looking over would think they were just trying to hear each other, Nate thinks, but he can’t hear anything _but_ Wade. “Cherries all over them. Little bit of red lace around the edges. Picked ‘em up special for today.”

Nate wonders what’s so special about today. “Today?”

“I didn’t think my usual closing arguments panties could do the job,” Wade says, as though this is a sentence people say. “So, I got these for extra good luck.”

Nate can’t think for a moment, too busy fighting the urge to grab Wade, shove him into the bathroom, and rip off his slacks. Instead, he slides two fingers into the waistband of Wade’s pants and reaches down until his fingers touch the unmistakable curve of a lace edge. He slides his fingers back up, tucks them under Wade’s shirt, and rubs them against his scars. Wade squirms like he always does, gives Nate a pleased smile that makes Nate’s heart break a little because it’s showing him exactly how _rare_ it’s been that Wade’s had someone who’s seen everything he is and thought it was ridiculous in the best ways.

“Did I mention it’s a thong?” Wade asks, and he howls with laughter when Nate stands, slams money on the counter, and then yanks him out the door by his belt. “Why, Mr. Summers, I do declare.”

Nate jerks him off in the alley, Wade’s sheer pink panties encasing his fist. Wade groans and bites his lips and bites Nate’s neck and writhes and comes with his mouth wide open, and his eyes wide open, like he can’t believe this is his life.

“Nate,” he mumbles, sated and sweet.

“I love you,” Nate says, mouth against Wade’s ear. Wade shudders, and his fingers clamp on Nate’s wrist as Nate takes his hand off his dick. “You’re out of your damned mind, and you’re the craziest fucking lawyer I know, and I don’t know what you’re thinking eighty-seven percent of the time, and you make me laugh, and I cannot look at women’s lingerie without seeing you in it.”

“You’re welcome,” Wade says. “And I love you too, you filthy hand-job giving bastard.”

It’s not the most romantic declaration he’s ever heard, Nate thinks, but he can’t honestly think of one he wants to hear more.


End file.
